


Shorts

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Disassociation, Drabble Collection, Drama, Fluff, Gen, Loss, Suggestive Themes, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:22:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Several folks have been doing daily 100 word drabbles based upon a prompt from their discord server, which I thought was a super cool writing challenge.This is my attempt at writing to their prompts. Each chapter is a different short drabble. Thanks for letting me play/practice too. :)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17
Collections: Prodigal Son Drabble Dump





	1. Loud

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to zoejoy24 for explaining how to play and being open to letting me play along :)
> 
> all credit on the prompts and challenge goes to the pson goblin server
> 
> the title of each chapter is the prompt

The screech of the kettle toils with the girl in Malcolm’s head. “Find me. Find me.”

He fumbles to turn it off and attempts pouring the water into his mug, instead unleashing it over the counter and spilling onto the floor. The accident’s happening to another person, someone else who can muster enough rage for the both of them.

Not him. He stands in the burning liquid, seeing if he or the girl will sink into the basement. Bubbles reach for his attention, but he’s motionless.

Quiet, in a world where her every word is loud: “Find me. Find me.”


	2. Tight

“You’re not gonna fit.”

“Let me push in. It’ll be fine.” He edged in and slid forward, his hips jutting against the wall. “Fuck.” It was such a tight fit, he didn’t know if he would last.

“Just a little bit more.”

His grunt signified he couldn’t go any further.

“Take a deep breath and pull back out.”

He rocked his hips, yet didn’t get very far. “I can’t. I’m stuck.”

Bright’s legs hung out of the air duct, his torso trapped inside. Dani laughed in the corner, then showed him mercy and grabbed his hips to help him out.


	3. Shape

When she curled in beside him, they made a P: a promise of his pancake breakfast on Sunday mornings and her lemon poundcake when they had fundraisers at the precinct. Some days they slipped to a b in an early surprise greeting, others a C when one of them needed more soothing. During rare arguments, a V, their feet breaking the rift and seeking comfort in the other.

When he slid to an l, he didn’t see the daylight. He rolled the width of the bed, every position just as lonely, and fell deep into the dark pull of night.


	4. Coach

“You’re dropping your hands when you bob,” Malcolm warns as they spar.

Dani raises her hands extra high, as if covering during other movements is the problem. Malcolm throws a jab, followed by a hook, and she parries and bobs to avoid it.

A second hook is waiting, connecting with the side of her head. “You’re dropping your hands.”

“Time out a minute,” he calls. They squat across from each other, Malcolm swinging his arms in turn at her head as she bobs. If she keeps her hands up, she clears, if she doesn’t, one more bop on the head.


	5. Offer

“Two tickets to a Knicks game.”

“That’s not what Tally’s gonna wanna see.”

“Palberta?”

“Bright, just ask. Downton.”

“That’s been gone awhile.”

“Things like that - Costume Institute.”

“You don’t need tickets for The Met.”

“So give a donation, and we can go. Or something else like that.”

“That’s not the point. I’m trying to give you both something nice.”

“So come with us.”

“Pretty sure I don’t count as nice.”

“Pick a day, and your skinny ass can meet us for The Met and drinks. Your treat.”

“Oh, you weren’t supposed to have to pick.”

“You really should just ask.”


	6. Defeat

Bright’s broken in Gil’s office again, two fingers on his hand splinted together, his arm curled into his side in significant pain.

“I give up, kid!” Gil exclaims, his hands resting on the back of another chair instead of wringing Bright’s neck. “You’re trying to get yourself killed.”

Bright doesn’t respond, knows better than to challenge the observation when all the evidence is in front of Gil.

“How much of your negligence is on purpose?” Gil glares into him, seeking answers to the impossible question.

Bright’s not prepared to respond. He scowls in return.

A stalemate ’til the office burns.


	7. Suntan

Gil’s laying on a mat stretched out in Bryant Park, sun kissing his legs, arms, and face. An afternoon yoga session Bright had suggested; low key, something where he could decompress over lunch. Now that it’s done, he doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to go anywhere the sun won’t follow.

In these moments, he can see Jackie laying next to him, kissing his forehead, holding his hand, running her toes up to his shin. Wondering if he’d like some more sunscreen, and if he’d turn over, she’d finish it for him.

He returns to the precinct before he burns.


	8. Fist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by something missscorp said in a comment about gil punching martin

Malcolm’s inside the wall before he registers the hit. The victim? Gil’s study, the phone that announced Dr. Whitly’s escape resting on the table between them.

“Bright, let’s take a step back,” Gil guides, one hand on his shoulder, the other working to pull his hand out of the wall.

Malcolm doesn’t register the movement, his mind lost somewhere in a world serial killer fathers don’t have leverage. Gil puppets him to the couch, retrieves and wraps his hand in ice, and waits.

Gil’s fists curl and uncurl at his sides, counting the days ’til he can punch Dr. Whitly.


	9. Castle

The Milton home is Jessica's castle and Malcolm's cage. Drywall isn’t enough to finish the remodeling effort. Jessica has the contractors do a full overhaul of the basement tracking down secret entrances, bricking them up with concrete blocks, and finishing them over like they never existed.

By the time Malcolm re-enters, she’s confident he’ll no longer see his captivity. But as soon as he steps inside, he pauses, looks around for all the exits, and yearns his mind to stop the vivid play by play of Watkins defiling the insides. Amid the construction, she forgot to board up his mind.


	10. Jury

Watkins sits in the front of the courtroom, barely visible from Malcolm's seat. Only tufts of hair poke above all of the other attendees. But Malcolm knows he’s there.

His side aches if he dreams the wrong way, his hand clenches seeking any means of escape, and his head throbs with flipping axes and closed chests. He’d know Watkins’ presence anywhere; a beacon he’s still trying to evade.

Watkins grins from the front of the courtroom; he knows Whitly’s in there somewhere. Hopes he’ll be called to the stand so he can see terrified blue eyes starting back at him.


End file.
